


Mining, Manufacturing and Other Good Things to Come Out of Minnesota

by jamlockk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Coffee Shops, Egregious use of post it notes, First Dates, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-it Notes, Revoltingly fluffy fluff, Rugby Captain John, Shy Sherlock, Tumblr Prompt, who knew that was a tag?!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:05:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5572093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this tumblr college AU prompt: "I'm writing my thesis and somebody keeps leaving crumbs and shit on my carrel so the passive-aggressive sticky note war begins until one day I finally catch you in the act and it turns out you're really attractive"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I kinda took the prompt and ran with it a bit. And also Brit-ified it because I am twee and British. This is pure fluff of the most sickeningly fluff kind. I may write more because shy Sherlock is my kryptonite. As always a huge thank you to Ewebie for beta-ing and generally being awesome.
> 
> ETA: please note rating change due to author's inability not to make this into fluffy porn with feels in the second chapter.

The library is quiet as Sherlock makes his way through the stacks towards his favourite spot. Tucked away on the second floor, beside musty rows of rarely accessed volumes, Sherlock's spot is peaceful; not too warm in summer, not too cold in winter, far enough from the lifts and the loos that nobody walks by , close enough to the stairs that he can hear snatches of his peers' ludicrous conversations in the stairways. In other words, the perfect place for him to think, do some spring cleaning in his mind palace, store away tidbits of gossip, or type up his notes.

It's the latter which has brought him here today, on a blustery Saturday evening, with his laptop and notebooks spilling out of his bag. He had to grab them in a hurry to avoid his flatmates, dashing out of the door before they came back from lectures to get ready for a night out drinking. He would dearly love to move out of halls altogether but he can't afford a flat by himself, not with bloody Mycroft holding onto his trust funds until his degree is completed. Bloody Mycroft. Bloody Seb, and Philip, and Victor. Sherlock has shared with them for nearly a year now and every Saturday is the same. They go out, get drunk, try to pull, fail, come home, interrupt whatever Sherlock is doing, make fun of him, get more drunk, eventually pass out in the kitchen/living room/bathroom. Seb and Philip are worse than Victor, who at least looks vaguely apologetic the next day. The most annoying thing is that, for all their stupid bravado and idiotic comments, Sherlock can't help but feel a small stab of hurt at every joke, every jibe at his expense. He's long since given up bothering to deduce them; there's just no challenge in it anymore. So instead he spends his evenings in his favourite spot, reading journals, devising new experiments, or just simply sitting quietly to think.

Saturday evenings are always quiet in the library, except during exam week, and even then, nobody really ventures up to the silent study spaces on the second floor. It's mostly filled with old books that only one or two of the lecturers even know exist, with the rest of the university's holdings in the sciences being stored in the much more modern and much larger library closer to campus. Sherlock hates that library; a giant glass monstrosity that sits right in between two of the university's newest buildings - the medical school and the physics, chemistry and engineering departments. That library is enormous, 11 floors of study spaces for both arts and sciences students alike, always bustling with hundreds of undergrads and some of the more popular lecturers.

This library, the old library, is housed in one of the older buildings that will eventually either have to be completely renovated or knocked down. It's drafty, smells funny and is managed by possibly the smallest and fiercest librarian ever employed at a university. Ever. Mrs Hudson has a reputation amongst the students as warm, funny and always good to talk to, but she takes no shit from them either. She'll help you when you're upset about something, offering tea and biscuits in her little office just along from Sherlock's spot, but if she thinks you're being a twat she'll tell you so. Sherlock of course adores her, and she dotes on him in return, letting him get away with all manner of minor infractions for which she'd give any other student a proper bollocking.

Sherlock loves this library. As much as he hates having to type up his dissertation notes, feeling that the results of his experiments should stand for themselves, he likes coming here to pore over his work. He's not been back in a few days and he's eager to get back to it and finish so he can submit his dissertation and move on to his postgrad studies.

He rounds the corner at the top of the stairs and makes for the desk he (and Mrs Hudson) think of as his. What he sees there pulls him up short and he gapes for a moment. His confusion quickly turns to annoyance.

The desk is covered in crumbs, wrappers, an empty water bottle, crumpled bits of paper, and a chewed pen lid or two. Scowling at this invasion of his space, Sherlock irritatedly sweeps the detritus from the desk into a nearby bin. He drops his bag on the floor beside the chair and draws out his laptop, determined to concentrate on his notes. Despite himself he can't help gathering information on this interloper who's made such a mess and carelessly left it behind for him to find. Sweet tooth, that's obvious from the wrappers and biscuit crumbs (sloppy eater, ew), stressed out despite it being only the third week of the semester (chewed pen lids), clearly plays sports (water bottle), medic in their final year (going by the crumpled notes).

Right, Sherlock thinks. He spends a few hours typing up his notes, getting lost in the formulas and equations he's been working on. When the bell sounds to indicate that the library will close soon, he sighs and stretches in his seat. Mrs Hudson will let him stay a bit longer but he is a bit tired, having not slept in two days, and he should probably eat something soon. But before he leaves he needs to deal with the messy medic intruding into his peace.

He gets out his notebook and tears out a sheet of paper. He taps his pen against his lips for a moment, then scribbles a note and tapes it to the desk. 'If you're struggling with your biochem module perhaps you should spend less time snacking and more time studying. Kindly piss off.'

Satisfied, he gathers his things and heads for the stairs.

The flat is suspiciously quiet when Sherlock gets back. He glances around, taking in the mess caused by four young men living together in a relatively small space, and remembers - ah, the athletic union ball, that's where his flatmates (if one can call them that) will be. Trying to get off with the girls on the hockey team, no doubt, or trying to keep up with the rugby team's drinking. Sherlock's mouth twists into a gleeful smirk. Seb in particular is going to feel that in the morning, if the rugby team's reputation is anything to go by.

Sherlock kicks aside a pile of dirty laundry in the hallway as he makes for his room. He hardly spends any time here, only dropping by when he has to sleep. Most of his time he splits between the old library and the labs, researching and conducting experiments into the wee hours. The janitorial staff in the labs have gotten used to seeing him there, hunched over a microscope or scribbling in his notebooks. A few kind words in the ear of the head janitor from Mrs Hudson and they mostly leave him alone. He doesn't conduct anything dangerous in there; after several small and one or two... More significant explosions at school prior to be accepted at university, he learned to keep his more destructive experiments to his makeshift lab at home. Besides, it's more fun to destroy expensive ugly furnishings of Mycroft's choosing, however accidentally, than to potentially lose another of his favourite spots on campus.

Sherlock slams the bedroom door shut and drops his bag beside the scruffy bed. His room is the cleanest in the flat but that's not really saying much. There are journals and research papers strewn over every flat surface, books piled high in the corners, filched glassware and pipettes in a box below the window. The skull, given to him as a gift by Mrs Hudson in his first year, sits proudly on the tiny, crappy IKEA desk he bought to replace the one which mysteriously caught fire that first week. Odds and ends, scattered throughout the room, make this impersonal space feel more like his own, giving personality to the cookie cutter rooms which make up the shared student hall flats. Were it not for his obnoxious flatmates Sherlock might spend more time here.

As it is, he flops down face first onto his neatly made bed. (For all that he is barely an adult, he isn't an animal, unlike some.) His sheets are soft and comforting, and before he realises, Sherlock is drifting into a doze. He hasn't slept in three (or maybe four?) days, and he's more tired than he thought. Forcing himself to sit up, he takes off his shoes and socks, wriggles out of his coat and lies back down on top of the bedclothes, feet dangling over the edge of the bed. It's not that late but the halls of residence are dark and peaceful. It's hateful.

He thinks of his flatmates and his peers at the ball; loud music, sticky alcohol, bright lights. Yelling over each other, laughing, getting a bit pissed, stumbling home. Friends with their arms around each others' shoulders, giggling, listening to stories of a smile and a wink in the library, flirtations in group tutorials, meeting for coffee before lectures and invites to so-and-so's flat before the ball.

Sherlock snorts. He isn't especially interested in who's getting off with whom among the student body. He isn't lonely, he tells himself. He has his work, his research, his plans for postgrad studies and maybe his doctorate. He isn't lonely.

But the thought of listening to someone, someone interesting, and having them listen to him in return, holds more appeal that he'd care to admit. It isn't that he wants some insipid, vacuous moron to moon over his every word, of course not. It's more the ebb and flow of debate, someone to question his assumptions and ask him how he arrived at that conclusion, someone who I'll want to hear the process of his deductions and how he came to see all of that information. Someone who isn't predictable, who doesn't shy away from the 'freak' who sees more than he ought and isn't afraid to share his observations. Someone who just... Someone who listens. And maybe... Smiles at him. Just a little smile. A tiny grin. Friendly, a-and warm. That would be... That could be... Nice.

Foolish, Sherlock scolds himself, such thoughts are pointless and foolish. He only has two more semesters to get through then he can move straight into his postgrad. By then he'll be of age to access his trust fund; Mycroft can't hold onto the purse strings once he turns 21, it's in his parents' will. Then he can get a flat to himself, focus on his research and maybe, once he has his PhD, maybe then he can start his consulting business, like he'd dreamed of when he was little. Independent, self-sufficient, admired for his talents and his mind. Alone.

Sherlock lets his eyes fall closed and ignores the tiny ache in his chest until sleep finds him and drags him under its soothing blanket of nothingness.

\---

Sherlock slumps in his seat at the back of the lecture theatre. The professor is droning on and on and it's insufferable. Seb and Philip had stumbled in around 2am, disrupting Sherlock's napping. The few hours' sleep he'd gotten in between getting home from the library and his rowdy flatmates' drunken singing were a distant memory, as he'd failed to get back to sleep. Instead he'd spent the remaining hours before this appalling lecture poring over a new article on his laptop. His eyes felt dry and his brain sluggish. Coffee. He needed coffee. Then he would go over to the old library and work on his dissertation for a while.

After what felt like eons the lecture finally ends and Sherlock practically sprints across campus to the small coffee shop hidden away down a narrow alley. Molly, the barista, greets him with a shy smile and turns to make his usual order. Leaning against the far wall Sherlock pulls out his phone and scrolls through to find the part of that article he thought he might reference in his dissertation. The whoosh of the steamer and the bitter tang of strong coffee soothes his weary senses and he begins to relax. Just as Molly calls him over to the counter to pick up his coffee a raucous group enters the shop. They're laughing and noisy and it's grating on Sherlock's last nerve. He picks up his coffee with a nod in Molly's direction and pushes his way through the group of lads standing in the doorway of the tiny coffee shop. One of them bumps into him coming in as he's leaving.

"Whoa, sorry mate!" The lad says, taking Sherlock's elbow in a firm grip as he juggles his bag, cup and phone. Sherlock manages not to spill or drop anything and opens his mouth to tear a verbal strip from the group for blocking the doorway. He freezes when he sees deep blue eyes, a scruffy dishwater blonde fringe and a warm smile on the face of the boy holding his elbow.

It's John Watson. As in, gorgeous, friendly, popular among all students John Watson. As in, rugby team captain and final year medic John Watson. Oh shit.

"I'm not your mate," Sherlock snaps. John's smile falters and Sherlock uses the moment to wrench his arm free, escape from the doorway and stride off towards the old library. That was close. For all that he is not remotely interested in the petty squabbles and gossips of his fellow students, even Sherlock couldn't fail to hear about John Watson. He's seen the rugby captain around campus a few times, although he does his best to avoid the sporting crowds. John Watson is even more devastatingly gorgeous when he smiles, and that smile had been directed at Sherlock just then. Sherlock's stomach gives a little flutter and he feels heat flush into his cheeks. Sherlock knows he could easily find himself in a whole lot of trouble if he spends any time near or with John Watson.

Huffing at himself in annoyance he storms through the old library doors with a bang, startling Mrs Hudson at the desk. She calls after him, her tone one of fond scolding, but he ignores her. He stomps up the stairs to his favourite desk and stops cold.

There are crumbs and bits of paper on the desk. Again. Again! Sherlock grumbles to himself as he crosses over to it and stares down at the mess. He lifts an arm to sweep the mess into the bin again when a slip of paper catches his eye. There's writing on it and, curiosity getting the better of him as usual, he picks it up as he sits down.

'There. Tidied up for you. Nobody else comes up here anyway and it's a nice quiet place to study so I will not piss off. Kindly or otherwise.'

The handwriting is awful and there is a ring on the paper from a coffee cup. Sherlock snorts and takes a sip from his own coffee. He takes out his laptop and his notes and settles in. If the note finds its way into one of his books Sherlock refuses to notice it.

A couple of hours and several pages later, Sherlock can barely keep his eyes open. He should probably go home and catch up on his sleep. He doesn't want Mrs Hudson to find him slumped over his laptop, face mashing the keys and drooling again. She worries about him enough as it is, he'll never hear the end of that little incident.

Sherlock gathers his things but as he lifts his books the note from the desk mess culprit flutters to the floor. Sherlock picks it up and annoyance flares once more. He crumples it and stuffs it in his bag, pulling free a note pad and tearing off a bit of paper of his own. He fishes about for a pen and when he finds one, scrawls a reply. Then he trawls the reference collection until he finds what he's looking for.

He drops the book onto the desk and flips to the relevant page. There. His note reads:

'Removing your illegible and inaccurate notes does not constitute tidying.' He leaves it sticking out of the OED, open to the page on which the definition of 'tidy' is displayed.

When he returns to the desk the following day, a smug grin playing about his lips, he finds the OED still sitting there. Point made, he thinks. Then he notices it. The dictionary is still there, only now, it's open to the word 'fastidious'.

Sherlock snorts. There are fewer crumbs today but more scrunched up bits of paper. Sherlock unfurls one and tries to read the handwriting. It's the same as the notes he's been getting. The paper has lecture notes from a biochemistry module Sherlock took in his second year. Clearly whoever it is using his desk, they are struggling with the module. Failing, but only just. Some of these notes make sense but others... What must it be like in a normal mind, Sherlock wonders.

Before he leaves for the lab, planning a full evening's experiments, he goes downstairs and digs in Mrs Hudson's desk for a block of post it notes. Then he sits down again for a moment, takes out a red pen and scribbles onto the person's biochem notes. He writes on his post it note: 'Congratulations. You know how to use a dictionary. You are still failing biochem though, so I have taken the liberty of correcting your mistakes. Kindly piss off'. He slams the dictionary closed, tucking the notes inside and sticking the post it on top.

\---

Over the next few days Sherlock is absolutely not looking out for a reply from the desk messer. Nor he is disappointed when no reply appears. He is however glad that his chosen desk is no longer subject to the whims of a sloppy-eating sporty medical student failing a simple chemistry module.

He gets more done than he thought he would without the distraction caused by crumbs everywhere. He manages to navigate another encounter with John Watson in the coffee shop with minimal fuss (if by minimal fuss one means darting out of the shop as fast as possible while avoiding all eye contact). Their paths have hardly crossed in almost three years but now it seems they can hardly miss one another. Sherlock is puzzled by this but resolves to ignore any odd fluttering his stomach may do in John Watson's presence. If he simply never looks at John, he can avoid any peculiar feelings caused by that brilliantly warm smile. Crumbs on his desk are one distraction, he has successfully handled, John Watson's smile is quite another.

It's curious, Sherlock thinks, that John would choose to smile at him. Granted, John is friendly with everyone but he surely must know of Sherlock's reputation as a cold, acerbic arsehole. The only person they have in common is Mike Stamford, who, while he is wonderfully kind, is under no illusions of just how much of a freak Sherlock is. Mike would surely have told John about that thing with the beakers and the professor's blouse. And the time with the acid and the ostrich egg. And the- yes alright, Sherlock snaps at his own mind. There may not have been any explosions at university but Sherlock has certainly made an impression on the academic staff. Not necessarily a positive one.

So why is John Watson smiling at him? The best that Sherlock can figure, it's because they inexplicably keep running into each other and John can't help but be friendly, even knowing what Sherlock is like. Sherlock tries to pretend that the couple of times he has accidentally let himself catch John's eye as they pass, the smile he receives does not warm his heart and make him want to do anything he can to make it happen again. He absolutely refuses to let himself blush with pleasure at a simple smile from a gorgeous boy. Unfortunately this has happened once or twice, resulting in Sherlock hiding in his coat collar, curls flopping over his brow so that only his eyes are visible and cursing his pale complexion under his breath, until the heat leaves his cheeks. His lower lip is sore from biting it to stop an answering smile spreading across his face.

He realises that he's been sitting staring into space, fingers poised above his keyboard, a soppy expression on his face, for the last five minutes. All because of John Watson and his damn smile. The pleasant warmth in his body leaves him quickly as he scowls at himself, getting up and stuffing his things into his bag. He's late for a tutorial. Not one he ever goes to, but still. Anything to stop his mind simpering over John Watson. Or mooning over the note-leaving sporty medic who makes a mess and annoys him.

Grumpily, he storms out of the library and towards his tutorial, nose buried in his phone. If he'd be concentrating properly he might've seen someone standing chatting to Mrs Hudson, a brilliantly warm smile on their face.

\---

The tutorial is a disaster, of course. The PhD student teaching them is an idiot, and a pompous one at that. Sherlock had to correct his fallacious assumptions, for the benefit of other members of the class as well as to prevent his brain from rotting in boredom. Still, probably shouldn't have brought the haircut into it. He hadn't intended to out both the teacher and the student he's been sleeping with by mentioning it. One more deduction that he'd been expecting, there.

Sherlock sighs as he makes his way back to the library. One more complaint to the Head of School, he supposes. He's almost finished though, he just needs to complete his dissertation and his final exams then they'll be rid of him. He'll go to London for his PhD - with his marks (not to mention his age and his background) they'll accept him in a heartbeat. Then he can-

Sherlock spots it immediately. No crumbs this time, but there is a note. He glances around in case anyone is watching him but there's no-one on this floor, as usual. Trying to seem nonchalant, Sherlock sits down and carefully opens the note.

'Thanks for the corrections - I passed the mock exam! :) You're still a fastidious know-it-all.'

Sherlock smiles, then catches himself. He thinks for a moment, biting his lip. Then he gets out his post it notes and scribbles something down before he can second-guess himself.

'You're welcome. I'm glad to see that you are no longer cluttering up my workspace with your crumbs. You may continue to use this desk in future. And I do not know it all. Though I will concede that I know rather a lot.'

He sticks the note to the desk, underneath his laptop and looks up a few journals he's been meaning to read for the past week or so. His dissertation is almost finished and it's nice and quiet here. What's the harm in spending a little time catching up on his reading before he has to go back to his horrid flat?

\---

Each day after that, Sherlock finds a note stuck to the desk. He replies to every single one. Mrs Hudson catches him smiling more often and, since he's usually the only one occupying the second floor, starts bringing him treats from her kitchen. Just this once, dear, she says. Sherlock hides his grin behind mouthfuls of tart, scone and traybake.

The notes get progressively friendlier, and more than a little flirty, and Sherlock soon gets a swoop of anticipation in his tummy every time he enters the library. He keeps each of the notes tucked away safely in his oldest notebook. He'd never admit to it, but he likes that someone is taking the time to leave them, just for him.

Sherlock does feel a little bit silly, exchanging notes with this person via post it instead of texting or finding each other on Facebook or whatever it is people of his age normally do with their friends. Not that he'd call this person a friend, per se. It's just that, besides avoiding John Watson's smiles and the taunts of his flatmates, this is the only real interaction he has with anyone on campus. (Mrs Hudson and her lemon cakes don't count, he tells himself.) So what if he's carrying on a conversation by post it?

'Rather a lot? From what I can tell you're some kind of genius! Better at this chemistry stuff than me, anyway.'

'Stop drinking the cafeteria coffee and you might be better able to retain what little knowledge your lecturers impart.'

'Is this your wordy roundabout way of asking me out for coffee?'

'Don't be ridiculous. You're still drinking the cafeteria sludge. Clearly you don't know good coffee from horse piss.'

'How'd you know I'm not just drinking the good stuff in a cafeteria cup? Gotta collect those loyalty stamps and get my free cup of horse piss somehow ;)'

'Please. Dregs in the cups you leave behind, one of which had a phone number written on the side of it. Either you're not interested in 'Sarah' or you're not reusing the same cup. Simple. That and the fresh grass you traipsed in on your shoes, indicating you'd come here directly from rugby practice, via the cafeteria in the Wilson building, which is the nearest one to the sports facilities. Conclusion: you have no idea what good coffee is. Or where to find it.'

'That is amazing. You knew all that from my coffee cup and grass on the floor?! See, told you. Genius. ;)'

'That's not what people normally say. They normally tell me to piss off.'

'Yeah well, you tried that on me already. Didn't work ;)'

'You certainly proved stubborn, as did the coffee stains I see you tried unsuccessfully to remove from the surface on the far side here. I told you to stop drinking that swill from the cafeteria.'

'Damn, busted. Yeah you did tell me. And you also told me I clearly didn't know good coffee. You were right. Care to show me where to find the good stuff? ;)'

Sherlock stares down at the latest post it, stuck to the desk in the few minutes he'd gotten up to use the loo and find an obscure reference book in the stack at the far end of the floor. He peers around, looking for signs that anybody is nearby. There's no-one there. Who the hell is leaving him these flirty notes?

A sudden thought occurs like a bucket of cold water to the face. What if the notes are some elaborate prank, played by Seb and his cronies? Anything they can do to humiliate Sherlock, they'll try. Especially after the visit from Victor's father a couple of months ago. Not Sherlock's proudest moment. In the quiet solitude of the library he can admit that he was imprudent to mention Victor's father's financial difficulties so carelessly. Victor had always been the most tolerable of Sherlock's flatmates; he stopped speaking to Sherlock after his father's visit and he's transferring to another institution.

But Sherlock desperately wants to know who it is that's leaving him these notes. He chews his lip thoughtfully, vacillating on his options. Finally, he resolves to try and catch whoever it is in the act of leaving him a note. Then he'll have a better idea of what he's dealing with, whether it's rejection and humiliation at the hands of his pissed-off arsehole flatmates, or something.... Good.

He knows better than to hope. But he can't help it if his heart flutters just a tiny bit, the wish more tempting than all the lemon cakes in Mrs Hudson's fridge.

\---

 

Sherlock hatches a plan to catch whoever it is leaving him notes. It's a simple plan, really - go to the library, make sure he's seen going up to his his desk for a couple of hours, feign going to the loo and dart back to see if anyone is leaving him a note. He feels more than a little ridiculous doing it, but if it works...

Sherlock strolls into the library with an air of indifference, nodding in greeting to Mrs Hudson who rolls her eyes affectionately at him. He ignores her chirpy giggling and knowing smile, instead making straight for the stairs and his favourite study spot. His heart is already racing and he sits down slowly, carefully taking out his laptop and forcing himself to calm. He loses himself in his work for an hour or so before remembering the plan.

He stretches, extending his arms high above his head and pulling his back straight, rolling his shoulders before settling back down again. A tiny sound echoes from the other end of the room, behind the carrels of dusty old books. Sherlock frowns and peers around his computer, looking for any sign of movement. There is none. He starts to get up, intending to investigate, then pauses. No, stick to the script and catch the person in the act. If it's Seb, he'll be disappointed but unsurprised. All the more reason to find a flat of his own as soon as humanly possible.

Sherlock stands up noisily and heads for the loo. He's twitchy with anticipation, a thrill of excitement thrumming in his veins. He makes himself wait a couple of minutes, drumming his fingers on the counter in the men's and tapping his foot impatiently. Then he sneaks out and back across to the desk.

Someone is there. Bent over, arm moving as if they're scribbling something hurriedly in his notebook. The person's face isn't visible, but Sherlock can see a compact body, strong shoulders, lovely arms, and a bum that shouldn't be legal in those jeans.

Definitely not Seb then.

Sherlock walks quickly over, coming up behind his mystery note leaver, mouth open to bark at them. He's startled into silence when the person giggles, then turns and says: "Finally caught me out, then?"

Sherlock stands dumbly gaping at the grinning face of John Watson. He blinks and tries to process. Just what the hell is going on here?!

John is smiling a little ruefully, then he rubs a hand through his (soft, it must be so soft) hair. "Guess you're wondering what I'm doing," he says. Sherlock's mind splutters for another moment then seems to get itself in gear. Maybe.

"Wha-" he mumbles, gesturing vaguely to the desk behind John. Great, he chastises himself. Very smooth Holmes, well done.

John's laugh is self-deprecating but utterly charming. "Well I was going to leave one more note about that coffee," John tells him, "but seeing as you're here..."

"Y-you-?" Sherlock squeaks, internally screaming at his own brain to get a bloody grip! John laughs again, but strangely it doesn't feel like he's laughing at Sherlock, despite his apparent lack of comprehension.

"Yeah?" John grins.

"You were going to leave me a note about coffee?" Sherlock asks, finally regaining control of his mouth and using it to actually form words instead of a mere approximation of intelligent speech.

"Yeah, I was going to," John replies, grinning again. "Was wondering if you'd show me where to get good coffee around here. I was hoping, actually," he finishes, suddenly looking a little shy. Sherlock furrows his brow - why on earth would John be shy?! Naturally John misinterprets his expression.

"O-of course, if you don't want to, that's fine, it's-it's all fine, I just-" he cuts himself off and glances away. He looks a bit crestfallen, and Sherlock immediately decides John's lovely face should never look that way ever again. If he can stop it doing that by going for coffee that's what he'll do.

"I know it's fine," he says, a little more clipped than he'd intended. He rushes to clarify. "I mean, I-I'd like that, if you- that is, I'd be happy to show you, i-if you- it's fine with me, if you-"

Thankfully John stops his babbling by meeting his eye and smiling that wonderful smile at him. Sherlock shuts his mouth with a click. He reaches out towards the desk to pick up his things and John's smile changes from friendly to something decidedly cheekier. He slides his bum across the edge of the desk, ostensibly to move out of Sherlock's way, but actually bringing their bodies closer together. John tilts his head and openly appraises Sherlock's lean frame as Sherlock hastily gathers his laptop and notebook, shrugging into his coat. He suddenly feels incredibly warm, even though it's still mild outside and reasonably comfortable indoors.

John's gaze doesn't falter as he springs up off the desk and gestures to the door. "Shall we?"

Sherlock nods. "There's a little coffee shop, hole in the wall almost, just up Old Middle Lane," he begins. John's eyes light up.

"I know that place!" He exclaims, "Molly makes a cracking cappuccino."

Sherlock grins. "I know," he says.

\---

The walk to the coffee shop takes only a few minutes but it's long enough that Sherlock's nerves begin to resurface. It's just coffee, there's no reason for his heart to pound, his stomach to flutter, his palms to feel clammy.

Luckily the place is empty when they arrive. Molly greets them cheerily as she struggles with an enormous bag of beans and tells them she'll just be a moment. John chuckles and goes over to help while Sherlock stands there, feeling out of place and a bit lost. John heaves the bag onto the counter for Molly and returns to Sherlock's side.

"Nice place, this," he says conversationally, "I've been here a couple of times but only with the lads. They like their fancy coffee but I don't normally indulge, myself."

"Hmm, yes," Sherlock replies, "I remember seeing you here."

John smirks. "Made an impression, did I?"

"I- er," Sherlock fumbles. John laughs and again, Sherlock has the odd feeling that for once, it's not aimed at him. Well, it is at him, he supposes, but not in the usual way. It gives him a strange sensation in his chest.

"You certainly made an impression," John murmurs. Sherlock clears his throat and turns away towards Molly to hide the flush of pleasure creeping onto his cheeks.

"Cappuccino, is it?"

"Please."

Sherlock nods to Molly, who hides a smile as she prepares their drinks. They sit down at one of the three tables squashed into the tiny shop. Sherlock feels John's knee pressed against his and, feeling somewhat daring, he shuffles a little closer. They're not looking at each other but Sherlock can feel John's smile as if it were the sun itself shining on him. Molly brings over their order and a slice of chocolate cake, accompanied by two forks. Sherlock shoots her a look but she just shrugs and goes back to scooping beans out of the giant bag into jars. She pretends not to watch them and Sherlock pretends not to notice.

They sip their drinks in silence for a moment, each not wanting to give away their nerves. Sherlock sets down his cup and tries not to stare at John. For his part, John looks as though he is trying equally hard not stare. John cracks first.

“So,” he says.

“So,” Sherlock agrees. They lapse into silence once more. Sherlock drums his fingers nervously against his cup, still deliberately not watching as John raises his to his (lovely) lips to take a sip. John catches him and Sherlock flushes, looking down and forcing his fingers to still. He can feel the smile spreading across John’s face.

“So, that biochem module,” John starts. Sherlock snorts.

“The one I attended once, corrected the idiot directing the class, was asked to leave, then passed anyway? Yes?”

John laughs and shakes his head. For a moment Sherlock panics that he’s ruined this already but then he sees the warmth in John’s smile.

“You really are brilliant, aren’t you?” John says softly, winking at Sherlock over the rim of his coffee. Sherlock flushes again at the sincerity in John’s voice and bites his lip to hide his answering smile.

“Yes, well,” he says, clearing his throat. “Of course practically everyone else is an idiot so it’s really not a fair comparison.”

John laughs again, “go on then,” he teases, “show off for me, you brilliant thing.”

Sherlock leans back in his chair, a mock serious expression on his face as he steeples his fingers beneath his chin. John gleefully waits to be wowed.

“You’ve played rugby since primary school and though you initially took it up to please your father, you did actually enjoy playing. You became captain very quickly, most likely due to the respect you command from your teammates. You like to win, as you like most sportsmen, have a highly competitive streak, and you often competed with your older sibling when you were younger,” Sherlock says, in something of a rush. John sits back and looks up at the ceiling as he pretends to consider this. He tilts his head cheekily.

“Sibling?” he asks. Sherlock huffs. John grins and gives in. “Sister.” Sherlock frowns. So hard to tell on so little data. There’s always something.

“Still amazing though,” John says, still grinning as he finishes his coffee. “Go on, I know there’s more!” Encouraged by the genuine smile in John’s eyes, Sherlock narrows his own and concentrates.

“You decided to become a doctor not because you found a baby bird when you were seven,” he continues, smiling as John giggles, “but because you thrive on being kept on your toes. You have an innate caring nature, of course, but you like the challenge of studying medicine. You, like me, hate being bored.”

John nods in agreement. “Though I’m guessing I’m easier to entertain than you are,” he says, “with all that going on in that head of yours. Seriously though, how can you see all that about me?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to explain his deductions but is stopped when John holds up a hand.

“Wait, no,” John says. Sherlock’s heart sinks to his feet and he looks away. He’s been revelling in John’s attention but he’s sure he’s come across as too freakish. And now, John will stop smiling at him and telling him he’s brilliant and-

John is still smiling. “I was going to say that if I ask you to tell me how you know all that stuff it might make you seem ordinary, when really, you couldn’t be ordinary if you tried.”

“So, you’ve done me. Who else…” John looks around, then indicates the student who’s just come into the coffee shop. “What about her?” he whispers in a conspiratorial tone.

Sherlock spends the next few minutes deducing the student waiting for her macchiato (literature postgrad, owns a cat, shares a flat with her male best friend), then moves to the first year walking by the window (engineering, failed his exams last year and had to repeat them over summer, lives in a shared house and hates it). At every 'amazing' and 'brilliant' from John, Sherlock's confidence grows and he relaxes little by little. His verbosity and hesitant attempts at playfulness seem to inexplicably delight John.

“Oh, and he drives a van but wants to be a pilot,” Sherlock pronounces. John gapes at him incredulously, then laughs again. Sherlock thinks that John’s laughter may be his favourite sound in the world, beating out any violin concerto by a country mile.

“Okay, no,” John says between laughs, “there is no way you could tell that just by looking at him!”

“Yes I can,” Sherlock argues. John gestures for him to elaborate. “Left thumb,” Sherlock says, lips quirking into a half-smile.

“Fantastic,” John says, apparently perfectly happy with this non-explanation. Sherlock tries not to preen and utterly fails. How has John’s praise come to mean so much to him in such a short time?

“What are your plans after graduation then?” John asks. Sherlock tells him about moving to London for his PhD, maybe setting up his business.

“Consulting detective,” John says, clearly impressed.

“Only one in the world,” Sherlock replies. A complex series of expressions chase themselves across John’s face and Sherlock has barely had time to parse them when they vanish.

“Yeah, you are,” John murmurs. Sherlock blushes harder even harder than before and shifts in his seat. Change the subject, quick before John sees too much, he thinks.

“What do you plan to do when you graduate then?” he asks.

John shrugs. “I’m going to move back to London too, actually,” he says, a little too casually. Despite his best efforts, a sliver of hope begins to bloom in Sherlock's chest.

“There’s a great research programme at Imperial. I want to carry on studying, but in a more specialised area,” John goes on, his face lighting up as he tells Sherlock about the centre for tropical medicine and the research he's interested in. Sherlock knows a little about tropical medicine – well, the really interesting diseases at least, and they lose themselves in the topic for a while.

Before they've realised the time the afternoon has passed and John reluctantly stands up to leave. Sherlock pays for their drinks, ignoring John's protests, and gives Molly a large tip. She winks at him in return.

Outside, John shuffles on his feet a bit, looking at Sherlock with an odd expression. Sherlock stands with his hands jammed in his pockets, unsure of what he should do next. He really wants to spend more time with John, but how does one ask that?

"I-" he starts, then stops. John waits patiently. "I really enjoyed this," Sherlock says in a rush, not meeting John's gaze. When he finally does look up John is smiling again. Always with that damn smile, Sherlock thinks dazedly.

"Me too," says John, "maybe we can do this again?" Sherlock nods shyly and his eyes widen as John moves closer to him. John leans up, giving Sherlock plenty of time to move away but Sherlock tilts his head closer. Still smiling, John presses a featherlight kiss to Sherlock's cheek.

"See you, Sherlock," John says, and with a wink, walks away towards his own residence.

Sherlock stands in the alley, mind swirling, face burning with a bright blush, cheek tickling from the feel of John's lips. He shakes himself and starts off back towards his flat, cramming his hands further into his pockets and fighting back an enormous happy grin.

He stops when he feels something stuck in his pocket. He pulls it out and unfurls it in his hand. It's another post it.

'Notes are all well and good but take too long. Text me instead. ;) JW'

Sherlock wonders if he can ask Mycroft to invest some of his trust fund in 3M.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3M make post it notes. Thanks Jam for pointing out the obvious. ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soooo.... turns out I couldn't just leave it where I left it. Here, have some gratuitously daft smutfluffing.

_Hi, it’s Sherlock. -SH_

No. Too short.

_Hi John, it’s Sherlock. How are you? -SH_

No. Too dull.

_Hi John, it’s Sherlock. I very much enjoyed getting coffee with you the oth-_

No. Too desperate.

Sherlock paces his room and tugs at his curls in frustration, flinging his phone onto his bed. Why is this so difficult? He has a ridiculously high IQ, first-rate observational skills and a quite frankly astonishing brain. He should be able to work this out! John kissed him, for God’s sake. He slipped his number into Sherlock's pocket and kissed him.

Sherlock pulls the now-rumpled note out of his coat and smoothes it open in his palm. There, John's words look up at him and he feels warmth spread throughout his body, as if John were standing beside him, smiling at him. He gazes adoringly at the note for a moment before snorting and catching himself. This should not be difficult. Simply text John and see if he would like to meet again, he tells himself. There. Easy.

He scoops up his phone and opens a new text. Then promptly freezes again.

His growl of annoyance can probably be heard across campus.

Right. Refocus. He throws his phone down again and goes back to his latest experiment, intending to concentrate on work for a while, to let his brain come up with a solution. But his mind refuses to play along. It keeps wandering back to John. John's voice. John's smile. John's kiss against his cheek. Sherlock frets with his experiment for all of three minutes before grabbing his phone, typing a message to John and sending it before he can overthink the whole thing. Again.

_Hello John. -SH_

The phone is silent. Sherlock paces. The phone stays silent. Sherlock fiddles with his books and re-sorts his sock index. The phone is still silent. He picks up his violin and screeches a few arpeggios.

Finally, his phone vibrates. A reply. A reply from John!

Sherlock forces himself not to just toss his violin aside carelessly as he grabs for his phone. He reaches it and fumbles, dropping it twice before eventually managing to swipe open the reply.

_Hi Sherlock!_

Sherlock reads John's response with a completely goofy grin on his face. Then his phone goes off again.

_How's things?_

_Fine. -SH_

_Glad to hear it :)_

_You? -SH_

_Yeah, good!_

Sherlock flounders. What now? Can he ask John if he wants to get coffee again? Should he ask how his revision is going for the biochem exam? See if John would like to come over and kiss him, properly this time? Can one just ask that? In a text message?

Panic grips him. This is exactly why he generally doesn’t do this, it’s frustrating and he is desperate not to get it wrong. Especially with John. This is John Watson, for God’s sake. He absolutely cannot mess this up. He may only get this one chance to make John like him enough to perhaps consider spending more time with him. For all their flirting by post it note, Sherlock knows he must capture John’s attention as best he can before he does something to upset or annoy John and he never speaks to Sherlock again.

The sound of his phone vibrating in his hand shakes him from his thoughts. John has texted him again.

_I’m really glad you texted me._

Sherlock gapes at his phone. He re-reads the message. John is glad to hear from him. Before he can think about it, he sends a reply.

_Coffee? –SH_

The ellipsis indicating John is typing pops up, then disappears, and then pops up again. Sherlock bites his lip and stares at his phone, willing John's reply to come through before his heart can burst out of his chest with anticipation.

_No I wa_

A lead weight settles in Sherlock’s gut. Oh. He’s ruined this already. John is about to tell him he was going to ask Sherlock to lose his number. Coffee once was enough, now John has lost interest. Unsurprising, really. How Sherlock had ever managed to convince himself that John would enjoy his company enough to want to repeat the exercise, he has no idea. He isn’t normally susceptible to self-delusion but apparently when it comes to John Watson he is as much an idiot as the rest of the world’s population. That kiss on the cheek? The one that Sherlock has been treasuring for the last day or so, working up the courage to initiate a conversation with John again? That was clearly just bestowed out of pity. Pity for the awkward, too-intelligent, arrogant chemistry geek who would otherwise never experience a kiss of any sort. That makes sense; John is nothing if not kind and caring and sincere and all that is good in the world, it would be just like him to want Sherlock to have something small to-

_Shit, sorry. It’s so cold out, my stupid meaty fingers pressed send bef_

Sherlock barely has time to process this before the next message comes in.

_Shit! Before I finished typ_

_The next three messages come in quick succession._

_Fuck. FiniHS typoing!! Stup id phone!! Was goin to as_

_FUCK. Was goi ng to aSk if yo_

_AT COFFEEE SHOP. JOINM E?_

Joy swooshes in Sherlock’s belly and he sits down on the edge of his bed, practically cradling his phone in his hand. John wants to see him again. John is at the coffee shop, waiting for Sherlock to join him. John cannot type when his hands are cold. John’s typos are adorable.

Sherlock frowns at himself. Where did that thought come from? Shaking his head, he frantically types out a reply.

_I’d be delighted. 20 mins? -SH_

Sherlock throws on his coat and scrambles into his shoes, before realising he’s still dressed in his pyjamas. Cursing himself under his breath, he shrugs out of his coat and flings his wardrobe open to find a shirt and trousers. He refuses to overthink any of this and selects his favourite plum-coloured shirt and a pair of black suit trousers tailored just so to hug his behind. He forgoes the suit jacket. Too formal. A thought suddenly occurs. Is he overdressed? Does he have time to find those dark jeans? They’re not as flattering as the tailored trousers, but he doesn't want to go overboard, just for coffee. But John is waiting. He can’t keep John waiting. What if John gets fed up waiting for him, and leaves?!

_Might be a bit longer than 20 mins. –SH_

John texts back almost immediately.

_Take your time. I’ll order you a cappuccino. ;)_

Sherlock changes three more times, finally dashing out of his flat almost 45 minutes later.

*

It’s when he gets to the coffee shop that the nerves really set in. John is sitting at the table in the window, sipping for a frankly huge mug of macchiato, no hot chocolate, and looking…

Well. He’s obviously just arrived, despite Sherlock’s own lateness. His cheeks are still a bit pink from the cold and he’s warming his hands on the mug, so he hasn’t had time to drink much of it yet. Why was he late? Did he go home to change too? Unlikely. He looks perfect. He always looks perfect. So what delayed him?

Annoyed that he can deduce nothing further and elated that this means he has to go inside the coffee shop to actually speak to John and gather more data up close, Sherlock (unsuccessfully) squashes the butterflies in his stomach and marches into the coffee shop.

John looks up and smiles as soon as he enters.

“Hi Sherlock!” He greets cheerfully, gesturing to the seat and cup opposite him. “I got you a cappuccino.”

Sherlock sits down and takes off his coat, reaching for the hot coffee. John was right; it’s bloody baltic outside. He’s just raising the cup to his lips when he notices John has gone very quiet. He glances at him over the rim of the cup and almost pours the steaming liquid into his lap at what he sees.

John’s eyes are wide, his pupils dilated and he’s licking his lips. Sherlock guesses he’s staring at the exposed skin of Sherlock’s throat, and at the buttons of the stupidly tight shirt pulling across his chest as he reaches for his drink. Sherlock congratulates himself internally; this shirt was definitely the right choice. He makes a bit of a show of swallowing his mouthful of coffee, then sets the drink down on the table and cups his hands around it.

John blinks and hurriedly looks away, biting his lip to prevent the smirk threatening to creep across his face from escaping. He clears his throat instead.

“So, I had my biochem exam today,” he says casually. Sherlock raises a questioning eyebrow. “I think it went really well,” John goes on, “but then, it would. I had some rather excellent pointers on the bits I was struggling with from a brilliant genius, after all.”

Sherlock preens and blushes. “Yes, well,” he says, “that and decent coffee have clearly improved your abilities.” John smirks.

“Oh, my abilities are much improved alright. And I have you to thank, Sherlock.”

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. “No, I do,” John says, the flirty tone dampened into a more serious one for a moment. “I honestly was having a tough time with that module and without it I would have an even tougher time getting into the postgrad research programme I told you about. You really helped, Sherlock. More than my tutorials and my professor.”

Sherlock suddenly feels very warm. John sounds so sincere, thanking him for correcting the obvious mistakes in his notes. He’s not used to anyone reacting like this to his so-called meddling, his need to voraciously absorb every snippet of information he can about subjects that interest him. It’s a very pleasant feeling and Sherlock is worried what he’ll do when John stops being so impressed with him.

“How’s your revision going?” John asks, leaning back in his seat and sipping at his hot chocolate again. As he shifts in his chair his knee presses into Sherlock’s, just a light pressure against his leg, and Sherlock is certain John will be able to see his pulse shooting dangerously high as his heart tries once again to escape his ribcage. Focus, he tells himself.

“I only have one exam this semester and it’s incredibly dull,” he answers. John laughs. “It is,” Sherlock insists, “I’d not bother turning up but I need the credits for my PhD application.”

“You’re just too clever for your own good,” John says warmly. Sherlock looks away, remembering the last time someone told him that. Their tone was considerably more Arctic than John’s, and there followed a rather painful connection between the boy’s fist and Sherlock’s face. The memory of Mycroft’s expression when he’d arrived home from school with tears in his eyes and yet another note from the headmaster swims before him.

“Hey, you ok?” John asks, his hand reaching out towards Sherlock. Sherlock wants nothing more than to take that so easily offered hand and rub his cheek into the palm, feeling the heat from John’s mug and the caress of John’s skin against his own. He just barely manages to control the urge. That would be beyond mortifying in the middle of Molly’s coffee shop.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says quietly, and smiles as John frowns for a moment then relaxes. Sherlock shoves away school memories and instead occupies his mind by cataloguing the colours in John’s eyes. There are so many of them. Sherlock decides that he likes every single shade of blue in the spectrum but the lapis lazuli in John’s irises is his favourite.

They finish their drinks in comfortable silence, each shyly watching the other over the edges of their mugs. Sherlock wonders how it is so easy for them to just sit together, neither needing to fill the silence with inane chatter, just enjoying each other’s company. He marvels at how straightforward it seems even as a small part of him begins to worry that this can’t possibly last too long. Unfortunately, that small part of him is right on this occasion.

“Shit, what time is it?’ John suddenly asks, grabbing his phone from his bag. “Shit, fuck, I’m late.” He looks apologetically at Sherlock, standing up and throwing on his coat. He picks up his bag and rummages for his wallet. Sherlock beats him to it, and nods at Molly who rings up their bill on her ancient till.

“No, no Sherlock,” John scolds, “you paid last time!”

Sherlock scoffs as John curses and sets his bag on his now empty chair to play hunt-the-wallet among the rugby kit in the bag. Sherlock takes advantage of John’s distraction and pays for their drinks.

“Sherlock,” John says warningly. Sherlock holds his hands up in mock surrender. John’s tone is still mostly playful but there’s a hint of annoyance in it too.

“Fine,” John grumbles, “but only because I am so late for rugby practice. I was in such a rush to get here to make sure I didn’t miss you that I forgot to pick up my kit.” He pulls a sheepish face. “I had to run back to my room to grab my stuff, and I’m still going to be late.”

They’re making their way to the door now, and the brumal air hits them as they step outside. John crowds close to Sherlock on the threshold.

“At least I have a very good excuse for being late,” he says softly, leaning up and pressing a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. Then he chucks his bag over his shoulder and jogs away towards the pitches.

Sherlock wraps his coat tighter around himself, his cheek tingling from the warmth of John’s lips. He has no idea how he makes it back to his room. Although he had planned to go back to his experiment as soon as he was home, he finds himself in his mind palace, committing every second of his time with John to his permanent memory.

He eventually falls asleep, his hands steepled beneath his chin, still in his coat, the goofy smile back on his face.

*

_Sorry I had to leave so quickly, Sherlock._

_It’s fine. How was practice? –SH_

_Yeah, not bad. Couple of new lads joined the team, Greg wanted to whip them into shape!_

_Sounds horrifying. –SH_

_Was for them :)_

_What are you up to?_

_Trying to drown out the sound of my flatmate singing in the shower. –SH_

_Oh god._

_Yes. –SH_

_What’s he singing?_

_I truly have no idea. -SH_

_It’s torture for anyone with ears. And anyone without ears. –SH_

_And any dogs in the area will be most agitated, I should think. –SH_

_Ah, that explains the mysterious barking I could hear from my shower after practice then. Turns out it’s your flatmate belting out One Direction ;)_

_Which direction? He’s not singing map co-ordinates John, as far as I can tell. –SH_

_No, it’s… They’re a band, Sherlock!_

_Ah. Not my area, I’m afraid. –SH_

_Oh? What’s your area then?_

_No, wait. Lemme guess… grunge metal? No, no, 70s urban disco._

_Nah, it’s hardcore dub step, isn’t it._

_What?! –SH_

_I’m teasing you, you brilliant idiot. ;)_

_But seriously though, what kind of music do you like?_

_Sherlock?_

_I play. –SH_

_Oh wow! That’s great! What instrument?_

_Violin. Well, mainly. I am also proficient at the piano though I rarely play it anymore. –SH_

_You’re amazing, you know that?_

_I bet you play beautifully._

_Perhaps I’ll play for you sometime. –SH_

_I’d like that, Sherlock. I really would._

_Cello. –SH_

_Sorry, what?_

_I… I also play cello. Not much. I used to. –SH_

_John? –SH_

_John? – SH_

_Sorry. Was distracted for a moment there. Thinking about you playing your cello._

_Oh. –SH_

_Yeah, I was just imagining what you’d be like coaxing beautiful sounds out of an instrument between your legs._

_Shit. Sorry. That was…_

_Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry. I’m a bit bolder by text than I am in person. Didn’t mean to upset you._

_It’s fine. –SH_

_Hey, I was wondering._

_Yes? –SH_

_John? –SH_

_Have dinner with me._

_Like, a proper date._

_Just dinner. Please say yes._

_Please?_

_Sherlock?_

_Yes. –SH_

*

Sherlock walks briskly through the crowds of laughing students, crossing the campus and making for the little restaurant. His stomach was tying itself in such knots that, even though he likely wouldn’t have eaten much anyway, he's not sure he'll manage a single bite. The butterflies are back in full force and he feels like he's swallowed a lepidopterist, collection and all.

This is a date. A proper date. John had said so. Well, texted so. Since that conversation yesterday, Sherlock has spent approximately 55 minutes of every hour panicking and envisaging every possible way this date can go wrong. And there are so many hypotheticals and variables that he has been driving himself up the wall. He's changed his entire outfit, down to his socks, at least six times. At this point he has no idea if he is even wearing pants. He fussed with his hair in the mirror for a full hour before giving up and washing it again so he could start over.

He so badly wants this to go perfectly. He wants to be funny and charming and to hear John laugh and to see John smile at him. He wants to hold John's hand across the table and brush their legs against each other under the table. He wants John to kiss him when they leave, to kiss him properly, on the mouth. He wants John to come back to his crappy flat with him, to sit on his bed and kiss him some more. He wants to feel John's hands on him, unbuttoning his shirt and stroking his chest while John kisses his throat and-

Oh. Damn. Well. That's not entirely unexpected, but it does make keeping up his walking pace a touch more difficult. Fortunately he's well-practiced at distracting himself from the demands of his body.

Think of something else. Something that isn't John's eyes, or his touch, or his laugh. Seb's crusty sock down the side of the sofa. Victor reheating fish pie in the microwave. The chemical formula of violin rosin.

Leaning against a wall away from the main street, Sherlock regains control of his ability to perambulate. He pushes off the wall, shaking dust from his coat, and strides purposefully towards the restaurant. He is going to be a perfect date for John Watson.

Sherlock is greeted by delicious smells of garlic, wine and meat as he enters the restaurant, and is reminded of spending his summers with his Grandmère as a child. John looks up from the menu when the waiter escorts Sherlock over, smiling as he stands.

John looks.... perfect. He's wearing a deep navy cashmere jumper and dark jeans, his blonde hair and golden skin glowing in the low light of the restaurant's candles. His face crinkles with delight when Sherlock approaches and Sherlock finds himself smiling shyly back. The waiter takes Sherlock's coat to hang up at the door and they sit down. Nervously Sherlock picks up the wine list, just to give his fidgety hands something to do. There's nothing he can do about his whirling mind, as his cheeks flush under the weight of John staring at him.

He sets down the wine list and glances up through his lashes, not trying to be coy but doing it anyway. John is watching him, and his eyes flick from Sherlock's open collar, to his mouth, and back up to his eyes again. He smiles approvingly and Sherlock flushes anew.

The waiter brings a jug of water and menus, then retreats. It’s not awkward, Sherlock is thrilled to discover. It’s just like it was in the coffee shop; pleasant and soothing and calming and delightful just being with John, sitting here, together. The silence between them is full of promise (or at least Sherlock hopes he’s interpreting that correctly) but it’s no less sweet for the appreciative glances they exchange. Finally John clears his throat and leans forward.

“I wasn't sure you’d come, if I’m totally honest,” he confesses, “but I’m so pleased you’re here.”

Sherlock smiles his agreement, secretly thinking John must be mad if he truly thought there was any way Sherlock wouldn’t turn up tonight.

“You look gorgeous,” John continues, dropping his eyes to the table and fiddling nervously with his fork, as if he’s unsure how this will be received. Sherlock is astounded and gapes stupidly for a moment. When he recovers he tries to return the compliment.

“You too,” he says, “you’re beautiful John.” John looks up sharply. Oh shit. He closes his eyes as he realises he may just have let a tiny bit too much slip there.

“Th-that is,” Sherlock fumbles, “I mean, y-you always, erm, well, I think, I-I like, well not like, but that c-colour is, well. But of course beauty is a construct built of childhood impressions and role models. But y-you, are.” He stops while alarm bells scream in his head. Loudly. The silence that had been comfortable and tinged with anticipation is now deafening agony.

“Do you really think that, Sherlock?” John asks, his tone unreadable to Sherlock’s screeching mind. He nods, then dares to open his eyes and looks at John.

John looks a bit stunned, a bit bashful and a whole lot delighted. His smile is warm and genuine and Sherlock can't keep staring at John like that, it scares people. So he's been told. He looks away, the brilliance of John's acceptance too bright to his eyes. John reaches out and twines their fingers together across the table. Sherlock's sharp intake of breath makes him hesitate, and Sherlock instantly curses himself as he tightens his grip and refuses to let John take his hand back. He looks up and they hold each other's gaze as John rubs gentle circles into the back of Sherlock's hand with his thumb. Sherlock thinks he could die here, right now, and know nothing but happiness.

The moment is broken when the waiter comes back and rudely clears his throat. Sherlock jerks in surprise but John doesn't let go.

"Can I take your order now?" the waiter says in a bored tone. John tilts his head and Sherlock picks something completely at random from the menu he memorised when John first suggested this date. Sherlock has no idea what he just said. This is going to become a problem, he thinks. John smiles and, not looking away from Sherlock, orders the same.

John hardly looks away for the rest of dinner. Sherlock has the vague sense that John is talking to him and he's responding in a manner befitting a normal human being, but in reality he is capturing every single second of this date and ruthlessly deleting extraneous material like how to boil an egg and who is currently Prime Minister in order to make enough room in his mind palace to store the exact curve of John's smile, how the tendons in his neck stretch when he looks behind him, the melodious sound of his giggles, and a thousand other details Sherlock wants never to forget.

Before he realises, the waiter is clearing their plates and offering them dessert menus. John says something polite and the waiter retreats again. It's just as well John steps in when Sherlock is lost in examining the pattern of hairs on John's lovely forearms, because Sherlock is sure if left to him he would've been considerably less than polite.

John is smiling at him and Sherlock decides there is no way this evening can end now. Sherlock knows he is nothing if not selfish and he wants more, more John, more, more, more.

"My flat is old," he suddenly blurts. John seems unfazed by the complete non-sequitur and merely raises an eyebrow. Sherlock blushes and looks away from John's gaze so he can try and regain some control of the link between his mind and his mouth.

"I-I mean," he says, "my flat is in one of the oldest parts of the campus, the building is Victorian and has some interesting features, I have a fireplace in my room for example, it unfortunately doesn't work, well, not anymore, not since the incident with the owl, but the mosaic of tiles in the surround have a pleasant green carnation pattern, if one can appreciate that kind of thing and, well."

He stops, certain that John has absolutely no interest in his bloody green carnation-tiled fireplace. John sits there, that same lovely, soft smile on his face. Sherlock swallows and takes the plunge.

"Wouldyouliketoseemyroom?" he says all in a rush.

John, God love him, just nods and keeps smiling, as if this display of complete idiocy is charming, rather than merely insane. Sherlock scrabbles for his phone in his pocket and flicks the photo app to a picture he'd taken of the fireplace when he first moved in. He offers the phone to John across the table, and their fingers brush for a couple of seconds when John takes it. Sherlock's heart makes a break for it, escaping his ribcage to settle in his mouth.

John flicks through a couple more photos and Sherlock winces internally at what must surely be on there. He forgets deletes some of the things he's had a fleeting interest in and he can't remember when he last took photos. He hopes there isn't anything too off-putting on there.

John hands him his phone back. "Looks nice," he comments, and Sherlock can't miss the cheeky twinkle in his eyes. Feeling brave, Sherlock goes all in.

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh god, yes."

*

The flat is quiet and dark when Sherlock unlocks the door and pushes it open to let John in. "This way," he says, steering John towards his bedroom and away from the disaster his flatmates have left in the shared spaces. John smirks and puts his hand in the small of Sherlock's back as he follows. Sherlock can’t help but shiver at this gentlest of touches and he's certain he can feel the heat of John's palm even through his thick wool coat. He opens his bedroom door and they go in. Sherlock shrugs off his coat, hanging it on the back of the door and steps up to John. Feeling brave, he places his hands on John's broad shoulders and tugs lightly at the material of his jacket. John smiles as he takes the hint, and lets Sherlock take the jacket off and hang it beside his coat.

Sherlock stands nervously beside the closed door as John looks around. He glances at John's jacket hanging on the back of his door, at John looking at his piles of books, the experiments on the desk. There's a softness in John's expression as he takes in the organised chaos of Sherlock's room. If Sherlock were any braver he'd think it was sincere affection.

The joy in Sherlock's chest is tinged with a sharp ache of longing. John looks like he belongs here, standing amongst Sherlock's things in a space that Sherlock keeps so private and so protected. He wonders what John would think to know that he is the very first person to be allowed in like this.

John takes a step towards the violin case resting on the neatly made bed. He turns back to Sherlock with a question in his eyes. Sherlock steps towards him and reaches out to undo the clasps of the case. John sits down on the bed and watches as Sherlock carefully opens the case and raises the violin to his shoulder. He picks up his bow, tightens the horsehair and steps back. Then he closes his eyes and lets the music flow through him, from the place in his heart that will now always belong only to John.

He has no idea how long he plays for, he just lets each note move into the next as he tries to put into words how much John has come to mean to him in such a short time. The piece moves from shy and hesitant, to bold and thrilling, to soft and melancholy, to sweet and timid. It's unique, and Sherlock knows that even if asked he could never express this the same way again.

When he finally finishes, the last tender vibrato fading from the air, he opens his eyes. John is looking at him with such wonder, eyes sparkling and oddly wet. John blinks and Sherlock is horrified to see tears fall down John's lovely cheeks. John sees him noticing and flushes, his head dropping into his hands. Sherlock panics and fumbles with his violin, hurriedly stuffing it back into the case then dropping to his knees in front of John.

"John?" he asks quietly, unsure what he did wrong. "I-I'm sorry," Sherlock says, wanting to reach out and just touch John, to offer comfort or apologise or whatever John needs. John's head snaps up and he lets out a wet laugh.

"What the hell are you apologising for, you idiot?" John says, wiping his eyes. He reaches forward and cups Sherlock's face in his hands, pulling him close. "That was the most beautiful music I've ever heard."

Sherlock just has time to blush at the praise when John's mouth meets his. The kiss is soft, just a simple pressure of John's lips, but it sets Sherlock's veins alight and sends a hot pulse of arousal to his groin. He hears a moan as John deepens the kiss, his tongue swiping across Sherlock's lips, gently demanding entry. He dimly realises the sound came from his own mouth but he can't bring himself to care when John's tongue brushes against his for the first time. John's thumb is stroking his cheek as his other hand moves down to his open collar, tracing the line of his throat. Every touch to his skin makes Sherlock's heart skitter.

John breaks the kiss and trails his fingers down Sherlock's chest, playing with the buttons of his shirt as he presses feather-light kisses to Sherlock's neck. His kisses leave a trail up to the inexplicably sensitive spot behind Sherlock's ear that Sherlock is sure will be visible for weeks. John is murmuring something against his neck and Sherlock struggles to make his brain focus enough to hear what John is saying.

"God, Sherlock," John breathes, "I've been dreaming about this, about you. So gorgeous, just look at you." Sherlock moans, low in his chest, surprising himself with his reaction to John's words. John's praises turn into pleas.

"Please Sherlock, let me touch you, let me please you," John begs, hands pulling gently at his arms to encourage Sherlock up into his lap. Sherlock barely needs any invitation and gets up unsteadily so he can move to straddle John. John lets go of his arms and leans back on his elbows to gaze up at Sherlock hovering over his groin. Sherlock immediately commits the picture of John beneath him to memory.

John's face is flushed, his pupils blown to eclipse all but a thin circle of blue, his lips are reddened and he is licking them unconsciously as he stares back at Sherlock. Sherlock is elated; he did that. _Him_. _He_ made John look like that. The swell of pride he feels at this realisation is only dampened by the ache between his own legs, his erection pressing uncomfortably into the fastening of his trousers.

John glances down at the considerable bulges they're both sporting and grins. Sherlock decides he absolutely has to free John from his jeans, and he needs to see John's face when he comes, and he will die if he doesn’t do both of these things right now.

Unfortunately John seems to have a similar idea, sliding his hands up Sherlock's thighs, thumbs brushing against his cock through the material of his trousers. Sherlock's head drops back and he almost falls off John's lap as pleasure rushes through his body at this simple touch. No. No no, no no no!

Wriggling a little to dislodge John's hands, he reaches forward and hastily fumbles with John's fly. John groans and his hands fall away, one coming to rest on Sherlock's knee, the other flung up over his face as Sherlock frees him from the confines of his jeans. John, Sherlock is both thrilled and terrified to see, isn’t wearing any pants. Also, John is... equipped. Sherlock's mouth begins to water as he sits there admiring John. If he's honest he's a little bit intimidated. Can't be any different than... doing that to himself, surely?

Tentatively he caresses John's cock with his fingertips. The reaction is instant, as John twitches and moans loudly, swearing under his breath as Sherlock takes this as positive feedback and takes up firmer strokes. He squirms as his own trousers get even more uncomfortable.  
"Oh God," John is moaning, and Sherlock has to stop for a second and close his eyes as the feelings surrounding him edge dangerously close to overwhelming. The last thing he wants is to come in his pants before John even gets near touching him!

"Here," John whispers, reaching up and deftly flicking Sherlock's trousers open as he reaches in to pull him free. Sherlock sighs with relief, then figures out what John has in mind. He leans down and lets go of John's cock to bring his hand up to John's face. John takes the hint with a smirk and licks Sherlock's palm wetly, lavishing it with his tongue. Sherlock has to close his eyes again. If sex with John is like this every- He cuts that thought off. There's no guarantee of a next time, he warns himself.

His thighs are quivering under the strain of leaning over John, propped up on one hand. John stops licking his hand and Sherlock wraps around both of their cocks, stroking them in time with the rocking of their hips against each other. Sherlock tries to kiss John but his orgasm is curling low in his belly and waves of pleasure wash powerfully through his whole body with every movement. The result is uncoordinated and clumsy but John doesn't seem to mind. If anything he seems almost as incoherent as Sherlock.

Suddenly John gasps what sounds suspiciously like Sherlock's name and Sherlock feels something hot and wet spilling across his fingers. The sensation of John coming over his hand tips him straight over the edge and he's aware of a hoarse shout of "John!" as his climax tears through him.

Sherlock gradually becomes aware of a heavy weight on his back, wait, no two heavy weights on his back, weights that feel very much like John's hands. His own hand is trapped between his and John's groins, sticky and cooling and covered in their come. His head is pillowed on John's shoulder and John is... John is pressing kisses into his mussed curls. He feels lightheaded and utterly boneless and, despite the encroaching discomfort of his sweaty shirt sticking to his back and cramp in his hand, he never wants to move. Ever.

John chuckles and heaves him off to the side. Must've said that last out loud then. Cold air rushes in as John gets up and leaves the bed. Icy disappointment and rejection instantly replace the warmth of John's touch and kisses and Sherlock tries not to do anything pathetic like curl into a ball and cry. No matter how much he feels like doing exactly that, he'll preserve a modicum of dignity if he can.

But then the unexpected happens. John comes back, rolls him over and wipes his hand clean with a questionable looking rag, tucking his softening cock back into his pants with tender care. Then it gets even better. John flops down beside him, their legs hanging off the end of the bed. Then it gets utterly, totally unbelievable. John cuddles in close to Sherlock, lying on his side, and snuggles into him, kissing his cheek and throwing an arm over his waist.

Sherlock can't help it. His mouth drops wide open and he makes a noise that is absolutely not a happy squeak. John chuckles again. "So," he says.

"So," Sherlock repeats quietly, voice full of wonder and no small amount of puzzlement. John just gives a happy laugh and settles down again. He nuzzles Sherlock's cheek and Sherlock decides that yes, he has actually died. This is what heaven would be like, of course. The feeling lasts until John suddenly pulls away again and leans up on his arm to look down into Sherlock's face. His expression is somehow sheepish, shy and hopeful all at once. Sherlock marvels at this; how does John express so much and yet give away so little of himself at the same time, except on his own terms?!

"I-I…," John says, then clears his throat. "I mean, I, um," he starts, cuts himself off, and frowns. Sherlock blinks. Shit. Well, that lasted longer than he thought it might. Shit. _Fuck._ He’s ruined this. Somehow, he’s ruined this and now John will leave. John will leave and this will be all Sherlock ever has. "Hold that thought," John mutters, getting up off the bed again.

Sherlock stays silent while John thinks, worried that if he opens his mouth all manner of ridiculous sentiment will pour forth in an unstoppable tide. He can’t do this, not now he knows what John's lips feel like against his own, what John's touch feels like on his throat. He is mildly furious with himself that he completely failed to watch John's face as he came. But of course it has to end like this. Of course there is no way he would ever be enough for John. Silly, stupid Sherlock! Just… let him go.

Sherlock closes his eyes, forcing himself not to curl into the space beside him that John has vacated. He hears John searching for something, then a scratching noise that seems like... that could be...?

"Oof!" he exclaims when John slaps his hand, albeit gently, to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock sits up, confused.

"There," John proclaims. Sherlock looks down. There, stuck to his shirt over his heart, is a post-it note.

' _JW_ ', the note announces. Sherlock looks at John, who is grinning widely back at him, leaning back on his hands and pushing his own chest forward, eyes shining with such happiness as Sherlock thinks he is glowing with it.

' _SH_ ', says the post-it over John's heart.

Sherlock vows to collect all of the many different colours and shapes of post-it as exist in the world, just for John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BLAM. POST-IT NOTE. (Ewebie, 2016, _On Beta-ing for an excitable Jam_ , 2nd edition).


End file.
